


In The Doghouse

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Captivity, Dehumanization, Episode: s11e15: Beyond The Mat, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, One-Sided Relationship, Season/Series 11, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:31:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6112330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't show any of this on his face of course. Keeps up with his “cleaning duty” while submissively hunched over, face red from the iron collar around his throat. He's at less than full power, his body throbbing with pain. But he remains there on the floor, right where he was put. Doesn't attempt to lift his head higher than the chains allow. Ignores the looks from the court, the mix of revulsion, fear, and sick satisfaction on their faces. Sometimes grants them the joy of a grimace when his tongue connects with ash or old blood on the floor. </p><p>Bides his time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Doghouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Memberoftheangelgarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Memberoftheangelgarrison).



 

 

_oh, the taste of these delights!_

_chains and shelter_

_my hand, my hand!_

_master_

 

 

 

 

The taste is sulfur. The floor – – that makes sense, of course. Considering where they are. Who they are surrounded by, day and night. But he didn't use to be aware of it like this. To have the taste make him gag.

Didn't use to feel it at all.

His court – well, his ex-court. He will get the throne back, oh, that is certain. But he'll have a new court. And have this one, or what'll be left of it – executed. Or, hm. Thrown in the dungeon maybe, until he can think of something creative.

He doesn't show any of this on his face of course. Keeps up with his “cleaning duty” while submissively hunched over, face red from the iron collar around his throat. He's at less than full power, his body throbbing with pain. But he remains there on the floor, right where he was put. Doesn't attempt to lift his head higher than the chains allow. Ignores the looks from the court, the mix of revulsion, fear, and sick satisfaction on their faces. Sometimes grants them the joy of a grimace when his tongue connects with ash or old blood on the floor.

Bides his time.

>

He's back in the “doghouse” – a bloody cramped hole in the wall – when Simmons comes for him. Every word she says is exactly what he'd want to hear.

Well. Two can play that game.

>

Some play-acting and a little messy stabbing later, he's finally out of that wretched Hawaiian shirt and back into a sharp suit. You'd think after a millennia-long existence Lucifer would have learned to appreciate subtlety, as well as gained some basic fashion sense. The pompous prick probably thinks it's above him. Soaring so high above – can't see what's right in front of him.

He tugs his cuffs straight, enjoys the night air and the open space for a minute. Despite his obvious short-comings, underestimating Lucifer would be a fatal mistake. He's playing for now, they both are. But Lucifer has never been a patient – anything. And stalling might make him suspicious. As dramatic as it sounds, it's now or never.

“Let's go.”

Simmons follows at his heels, quiet, obedient. Serene smile like a hyena in the shadows.

>

Lucifer is right on point, not a second too early. Grant entrance – at least the devil is somewhat predictable.

He paints surprise over his face, shock, fear. Hurt, at the “betrayal”. At the words, “They all hate you”. He doesn't hurt, of course not. Can't.

Won't.

He stands still while Lucifer takes the box, smugness etched into every line of Castiel's twisted features. Briefly, regret rises up. Using the Hand of God on Lucifer will likely kill Castiel too. Granted, they have never been on the best of terms, but they got history. Have had a common enemy, more than once. And what's more, since Lucifer came back from his last let's-play-good-angel-better-angel stunt full of barely concealed rage, the Winchesters – Dean – probably know about this farce now. He feels sorry, maybe. But he has to play this card or lose his whole hand.

It's worth it; for the expression on Lucifer's face alone. The way he doesn't dare come closer.

And then – the power surge.

He wasn't too worried, even with how close he came, he still doesn't quite have a soul to burn. Not even a living body, not really. There was the question if it would even work on him – kind of the antithesis of all things holy. But then again, what even is God these days? Who hasn't been a demon these days?

He holds the staff, calls up the power in it – and it works. _Hell_ , does it ever work. For one, glorious moment, he feels safer than he has in weeks, feels the tides turning.

And then it's all for nothing, because of yet another pointless sacrifice.

The Hand of God proves to be a one-hit-wonder – the _irony_ – and after that, he makes himself scarce fast.

>

Three states away and several hours later, he finds a dive bar.

The place is barely more than just another hole in a wall. But he sits down at the seedy counter and orders some shots. The burly man working the counter sets them down without question, then turns his back to him. At least the room service is better, then.

He downs the first one, lets it burn his throat a bit. Just for the nostalgia. He never was one for shots. Not until – well.

He sits there for a while, nurses the frilly cocktail he ordered after the shots. Lets the background noise wash over him, the faint tones of the del fuegos over the dusty speakers, of people playing pool in the back.

He tugs at his collar, but then restrains himself from rubbing over his wrists. His injures are healed. He's _fine_.

A bit stranded, maybe. He needs a new phone. A new plan.

He shifts in his seat, straightens his back. Savors the next swallow. Concentrates on the grapefruit, the vodka – lets it wash down his throat, take everything else with it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The cocktail Crowley orders is the Grapefruit Salty Dog


End file.
